


Beneath a Moonless Sky

by alliaskofyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, BECAUSE FUCK MARY, Beneath a Moonless Sky, Deviates From Canon, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Mary, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, TRF, so much goddamn pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:53:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliaskofyou/pseuds/alliaskofyou
Summary: “And I loved you(How I loved you)And I left you(And I loved you)And I had to, both of us knew whyWe both knew why”-Beneath a Moonless Sky"I grip the phone tighter like it’s his lifeline like it’s a rope attached to him that keeps him from falling. I grasp it and beg him, plead with him. His feet lift in the wind, the tips of his shoes tickling the open air. His voice is breathy and soaked in leaking tears. I taste salt on my own lips. I try to whisper his name but all that comes out is a choked sob as he falls and falls and falls and falls and falls and fa-"





	Beneath a Moonless Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the product of a burst of inspiration I received from Love Never Dies. If you haven't heard of it, it's the sequel to The Phantom of the Opera. SPOILER ALERT FOR LOVE NEVER DIES: It's set 10 years after POTO. There's a song that the Phantom and Christine sing called "Beneath a Moonless Sky". Basically, the Phantom reappears in her life 10 years after he shared some "intimate moments" (wink wink) with her and then left her before the sun rose/she woke up. This song is a reunion of sorts. She believed he was dead all these years and thus the inspiration for a fic about Sherlock's reappearance in John's life after TRF. 
> 
> Plus, I hate Mary and must take any chance I have to write her out of their story. 
> 
> In this fic, John and Sherlock didn't have sex before the fall, but, as you will see, there is/was much pining between them. Basically, this work is set a month after the fall and alternates POV's between John and Sherlock during the time Sherlock is "dead". 
> 
> Hope you like it! :)
> 
> P.S. It's not beta'd yet, so apologies for any misspellings/grammatical errors
> 
> Many many many thanks to TryingtoScribble for reading this when she is so busy with studying! <3 <3 <3

 

 

 

**ONE MONTH AFTER THE FALL _-_ JOHN’S POV**

 

_I grip the phone tighter like it’s his lifeline like it’s a rope attached to him that keeps him from falling. I grasp it and beg him, plead with him. His feet lift in the wind, the tips of his shoes tickling the open air. His voice is breathy and soaked in leaking tears. I taste salt on my own lips. I try to whisper his name but all that comes out is a choked sob as he falls and falls and falls and falls and falls and fa-_

 

“Sherlock!” My fingers tighten in the twisted sheets that ensnare my legs. I run a shaky hand along the side of my face, a feeble attempt to orient myself to the present (the present without Sherlock).

 

 My breaths come out in gasps, puffing into Sherlock’s room, escaping me, free like I wish I were. I try to practice the technique Ella taught me. Breathe in deeply through my nose. Breathe out steadily through my mouth. Name three things you feel. The sheets. My shirt. The bed. Name two things you smell. My deodorant. Sherlock’s cologne.

 

The stars slowly dance out of my eyes; the black edges disappear. He smiles sadly at me, perched on the end of the bed, just below my feet.

 

The first time I saw him I sobbed, full on choked on my own snot and spit. He left quietly, letting me grieve.

 

The second time I was making tea. I had to replace all ~~our~~ my mugs.

 

The third time I accepted his presence as a curse, forever haunting me with a love I could never have. I ignored him, refusing to acknowledge his ghost.

 

The fourth time I was at his grave. He stood beside me as I clutched onto the tombstone and called him every endearment and curse in the English language.

 

The fifth time I talked to him. He didn’t talk back, just smiled. (Honestly, he smiles more as a ghost than he ever did alive. It’s eerie and unnerving, but I guess it’s his way of apologizing.)

 

After the fiftieth time he appeared, I stopped talking to him. I couldn’t bear the silence. The anticipation of his voice gripped my gut in an ever - tightening vice. I’ve called his voicemail more times than I can count. The sound of his gravelly baritone insulting all who dare to leave him a message always washed me in a paralyzing tide of relentless grief.

 

Now, we speak only in a language of longing looks, gentle smiles, and sharp smirks.

 

He stares at me now. Eyes soft and sad and so far, so unbearably far away. I want to be there with him, away with him.

 

But I can’t.

 

I sniff harshly, willing the tears to remain unshed. I rise from the bed and stumble to the refrigerator. At least with him gone, I don’t have to worry about fingers floating in the pickle jar or eyeballs resting in the egg carton. I look over at him as he appears from his room. He catches my train of thought and rolls his eyes playfully.

 

I hide my smile behind the fridge door, grasp a bottle, and kick the door closed. His eyes fall to the drink clutched tightly in my hand. His face pales and his eyes widen. I ignore his warning glare and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from talking to him. I will not break. It’s been almost a month since I’ve cracked and talked to him. I will not torture myself with a one-sided conversation filled with pitying eyes and disapproving frowns.

 

I drop into my chair and purposefully prop my feet in his seat. If the bastard is choosing to torment me for the rest of my life, I damn well will get a say in how close he gets to me. He stands by his chair, fingers tracing the armrest. He acquiesces and sits on the edge of the table, legs swinging and silently smacking the post.

 

I gulp the bitter liquid. It’s a steady fire that burns down my throat and bathes my heart in a barrier capable of withstanding his absence from my life. It cleanses me of the unshakable guilt and deafening loneliness.

 

He scowls from above the bottle, but I only tilt it higher, obscuring his deep frown. When I lower it, he’s gone. Figures. I stand, but the room tilts and turns. My foot collides with an empty can from last night. It skitters across the floor as I stumble, the upper half of my body desperately clutching the seat of my chair.

A sardonic chuckle escapes my tight lips as I pull myself up from the floor. I consider throwing myself down once more when I see who is standing in the entryway.

 

“Hello, John.”

 

Mycroft has the same disapproving glare as Sherlock, but it’s infinitely less welcome.

 

“Still drinking our days away, are we?”

 

“Fuck off.” My voice is hoarse from lack of use and the occasional bout of acid that bubbles from my displeased stomach. “It’s nighttime anyway.” I throw myself back into the chair, hoping, like a child being scorned, that if I can’t see Mycroft then he won’t actually be here.

 

His umbrella clicks along the floor as he strides to the windows. He yanks open the curtain directly in front me, blinding me with overbearing sunlight. “It’s nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, Dr. Watson. Speaking of doctors, aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic?”

 

He lifts an imperious eyebrow that I desperately wish to wax off. He sure would be less intimidating without it. I can’t help but giggle at the idea of an eyebrow-less Mycroft.

 

The object of my humor, however, doesn’t act too entertained.

 

“Dr. Sawyer kindly allowed your absence at the clinic due to the…circumstances, but this has gone on too long.”

 

An irritated breath rushes out as I heave myself out of the chair and stagger to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. “Tea?”

 

Mycroft scowls and leans heavily on the table where ghost Sherlock sat. “What do you think he would think of you now, Dr. Watson?”

 

I try to still the tremor that ebbs from my hand into the shaking mug. I breathe deeply and focus on the smell of the tea, the cool counter, the over-filling sin –

 

“It has been a month. No amount of sulking, drinking, or glorified self – pity will bring him back. You are destroying yourself. You love him, and thus miss him, but do you honestly think he would love you li-”

 

“Get. Out.” My hand stops shaking, the false hope of battle calming my nerves.

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at my command and proceeds to open his ruthless, callous mouth, but I will not hear any more. I hurl the mug in Mycroft’s direction. Not necessarily aiming for him, but not minding if it smacks him in his pompous nose.

 

The shattering ceramic echoes in the flat. The slam of the door soon follows. I collapse against the cabinet; the swarming guilt full of “what ifs” and “should haves” and the encompassing desire for another drink collide in a relentless frenzy. I do not withhold the impulse for the latter.

 

**FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - SHERLOCK’S POV**

 

_How is he?_

_-SH_

 

_Barely alive. I advise you to hurry._

_-M_

 

Do you think I’m purposely trying to stay away? This assignment must be  _completed with absolute precision. I cannot leave any part of his_ _web alive._

_-SH_

 

_I reiterate: hurry._

_-M_

 

I pocket my phone and ignore the tightening pressure in my chest. John will move on. He will find someone lovely and full of life and forget me. He will live despite my absence.  

 

Lurking outside the abandoned bakery, I can hear their voices, muffled by the damp wood that barricades the shattered windows. I scale the side of the building, feet slipping ever so slightly on the slick stones. I heave myself onto the roof with a groan, freezing briefly to ensure I was not overheard.

 

The knife wound seeps through the dirty dressing I hastily applied a few hours ago. I can hear John’s voice nagging me, insisting I find a proper hospital to stitch my wound and ensure there will be no infection.

 

I can hear his soft laugh as he rolls his eyes when I tell him that he is perfectly capable of stitching it himself. I can feel his gentle hands work the needle through my skin and hear his soothing voice whisper apologies whenever I grimace at the pain. I can see his soft, open eyes glisten ever so slightly as he finishes his work. I can see the light blue swirl into a dark navy as he warns me against future taunting of a knife - wielding mime for information on a group of snipers.

 

I dig my fingers into the wound and bite back a yelp. I will regret that decision later, but it works, at least momentarily, to forget John (or at least put him toward the back of my mind) so I can complete this assignment.

 

I lie next to the only opening in the roof. The bright moon lights the two assassins below in a shifting glow. The bullet collides with the second before the first hits the ground.

 

**EIGHT MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - JOHN’S POV**

 

With the help of Mycroft (actually more his money than the man himself), I’ve been able to “relieve myself of the burden of alcohol and find a refreshing, hopeful view of myself”, or so the certificate I am to frame in a location I see daily tells me.

 

Honestly, the quote itself makes me want to find the nearest bottle and crawl deep inside. But I won’t. I welcome the pain now and wear it like his ridiculous coat that keep me shrouded in him, cloaking me in his memory that I refuse to release.

 

Even if it is excruciating and pointless, I refuse to let him go. It’s healthier than drinking, in its own way. I’m a functional citizen of society; only underneath the sculpted facade can you see my apathy toward life.

 

Everyday it feels as if someone is carving my chest hollow, removing all my organs and leaving me empty. I’m left with the aftermath, a bitter taste of myself. The pressure behind my eyes build. I want to scream, but the mask I wear curls only into a smile and I am forced to swallow the angry bile.

 

His ghost doesn’t necessarily approve (if he doesn’t want me to cling to his memory then maybe he should leave), but I see the smugness that he tries to hide every time I wrap myself in his Belstaff. His smell is still there:  cigarette smoke and tea and rain - soaked pavement and new books.

 

His ghost is here less, only appearing when I least expect it: at the clinic during a prostate exam (really Sherlock?), at the local coffee shop during my order so I stumble over the words like the drunk I used to be, at Regent’s Park where I walk to try to forget him (if only for a brief moment so I can breathe), in the shower where he sits on top the sink (bringing forth the image of him in there with me, fantasizing about all the places those long, slender fingers could reac-

 

He’s here now, in his “ghost mind palace”, hands forming a steeple beneath his nose in a silent prayer. I can’t help but wonder if ghost Sherlock’s thoughts mimic those of the real one, and I can’t help but hope his thoughts are of me.

 

**TWELVE MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - SHERLOCK’S POV**

 

The “city of love”. My upper lip curls in disgust at the excited tourists with their inability to not photograph everything, their horrific attempts to speak French when they can barely comprehend their own language, their belief they deserve undivided attention from the “natives” so they can have the best experience possible, and their idiotic herds they travel in that cover most, if not all, of the pavement.

 

I pull the cap down to obscure my eyes from the crowd and blend it with the mass gawking at the Eiffel Tower. It’s far from magnificent and even farther from magnificent are the ridiculous poses different tourists are creating to capture this “priceless” moment.

 

My eyes scan the crowd and lock with his. He nods ever so slightly and inclines his head to the alley next to a pastry shop. I follow his fleeting footsteps that lead me to closer to Moran.

 

Steps that lead me closer to John.

 

**THIRTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - JOHN’S POV**

 

Greg dragged me to a crime scene, believing it would help me. I’m not sure what he thought it would help me with, since everything here reminds me of Sherlock, especially since his absence is so blindingly obvious.

 

The detectives stumble along the crime scene, trying to piece together evidence that Sherlock would have used to identify what lip gloss the murder was wearing or what toothpaste the victim used before she was murdered.

 

I can hear his voice, mocking me with a smile that both patronizing and endearing: _John, why would her lipstick or her toothpaste be important? Honestly, pay attention to the evidence before you and not just your ludicrous fantasies of how I extract data from my observations_.

 

I close my eyes tight, imagining the scene before me, but with him spiraling around it. Deductions flowing from his lips as his coat billows around him like a mock cape. His mutterings increasing and decreasing in volume like the ebb and flow of a wave and finally, when he discovers how the millions of observations collide into a coherent piece, he looks at me with eyes so vibrant and alluring that it steals my breath, and only when he propels himself under the tape, lifting it for me to follow, can I finally breathe again.

 

I open my eyes, blinking back the water that begins to gather and tighten my hands into fists. It’s been over a year. When will I stop mourning him?

 

I look up and see him smiling forlornly at me. A grin creeps up my lips. He looks at me questioningly and then realizes Anderson moving closer to him as he attempts to collect evidence from the scene. In a flurry of wool and curls (I’ve never seen him move so fast), he’s standing next to me and scowling at my uncontrollable laughter.

 

**EIGHTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - SHERLOCK’S POV**

 

His fist slams into my swollen lips and bruised jaw. The impact throws me off balance and I collapse onto my side in a heap. The chains wrapped around my wrists dangle from the ceiling. He hauls me up by them and spits in my bloodied face.

 

I know he is one of Moran’s assassins, the last significant player in this game, a game that used to captivate me. Now, the idea of it being continued or prolonged in any way releases a cascade of dread that pulls me into a depth so depressing that I fear I won’t be able to escape.

 

Then, like every time I fall, whether it be from the roof of St. Bart’s or in a love so vital it sustains my every breath, John appears and soothes the oppressing isolation and despair.

 

The assassin delivers one final blow to my gut and leaves. He’ll be back for round four after a consult with Moran himself.

 

This horrific, nightmarish game is drawing to a close, and, with each passing minute, I draw closer to when I can be home, to when I can be by John’s side once more. That alone will help me end this and, hopefully, begin something new.

 

**TWENTY FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FALL - JOHN’S POV**

 

I climb up the twenty-three steps to the flat, not bothering to hop over the creaky one that groans when my foot lands on it. The flat is dark; the streetlights illuminate the dim room with sporadic flickers. I throw my coat on the rack and hold onto the wall for support.

 

It was a long day at the clinic. A young woman came in after an attempted suicide. Taking care of her lacerated arms and comforting her distraught mother was enough to send me into a gut-wrenching panic not unlike what I felt when he fell. The teenager was sent to a nice hospital. She’ll get the help she needs and part of the weight I’ve carried since his death has lifted, but the rest weighs on me like the deafening silence that envelops the flat.

 

But.

 

It’s not all silent. I can hear a steady breath and a soft tap. I slowly turn toward his chair. There he sits, like usual, but he’s never made a sound before. I’ve never heard him breathe. I’ve never heard his fingers drumming on the leather arm of his chair.

 

I approach slowly and sit on the edge of my seat, afraid to relax and fearful that this moment might flicker and fade like the hope that always blossoms in my chest when I see him.

 

He watches me carefully, too. He looks more tired and haggard than before. He’s still dressed to the nines, but he looks as if every movement, even the lift of his chest, sends an unbearable ache throughout his terribly slim frame.  

 

I open my mouth to speak, but all I can do is gape at him. I had promised myself I wouldn’t talk to him again (more like talk at him since he never responds), but I can _hear_ his quivering breaths and _hear his_ trembling fingers tapping. That has to mean something, or at least I hope it must. I close my mouth and begin to open it once more to attempt to converse with him, but he beats me to it. Words spill from his lips in a whisper, but in the quiet flat it sounds more like a scream.

 

“John, I - “

 

I grip the armrests on my chair so tightly that I can hear the fabric ripping. I am so absorbed in my spiraling thoughts and questions about my sanity that I don’t feel his hand lay over mine and squeeze ever so gently. I jerk back and pull my hand away, holding it tight against my chest.

 

I sink back into my chair and stare into his troubled eyes. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him. I feel as if I am trapped in a bubble that prevents any sound from reaching me. Every noise is muffled. Every sight is murky and shifting.

 

He moves forward, but I scramble away, standing up from the chair and backing away until my back collides with the solid wall. He moves toward me, and I feel the budding panic threatening to break the barrier currently preventing me from truly losing my mind (if I haven’t already). I hear myself tell him to _stay back._

 

He stops, his whole body frozen except for his eyes that flicker all over my huddled form. I slide down the wall, never once moving my eyes from his. I desperately search for words to fill the cacophonous void, but my throat feels tight and heavy.

 

Water leaks from his eyes that close in resignation. He drops his outreached hand to his side and steps back until he’s leaning against the wall opposite me. He slides down, mimicking my defeated position.

 

We stare at each other (I have no idea how long we do so); the only marking of time is the infinitesimal twitch of his hand resting on his knees that are bent toward his chest and the soft flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks.

 

I finally muster enough courage to speak, instantly dreading the way my voice breaks and scrapes as it escapes my clogged throat. “Two years, Sherlock. Two years.”

 

His eyes widen as I address him. He quickly opens his mouth to respond, but I hold my hand up to silently and sternly halt his apologies.

 

I curse my expressive face as I feel my chin tremble and my eyes burn. “You were **dead**. I _checked_ your pulse. I _buried_ you.” I’m surprised by how quickly my voice stops wavering. The righteous anger festers and spreads and I can’t, don’t want to, hold back all the loneliness, fear, despair, and rage. It seeps into my words and I stand with the false courage it supplies in me.

 

I glare at him. He doesn’t move, probably deducing my next words or actions. I scoff and fix my eyes on the ceiling above him, gritting my teeth. My fingers flex and tighten at my sides. I target him again with my relentless anger, staring at him as tears blaze down my cheeks.

 

“How could you - how could you do that? _How_?”

 

He tries to speak once more, but I’m not finished.

 

“No, I know how." A dark laugh escapes my lips. "You said it yourself: just a ‘magic trick’. A trick in which you fooled everyone - including me, your best friend - into believing you were dead. For what? So you could come back to life like a mock Jesus Christ and prove how superior you are.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he takes a step toward me. “John, I cannot begin to tell you how wro-”

 

I grin wickedly and scoff between tightly clenched teeth. “Oh, that’s rich.”

 

Sherlock realizes his mistake and quickly backpedals. “What I meant to say is you are entirely mistaken. I did it for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you, John. Always you. Never not for you. Moriarty knew about the sentiment I held toward all of you and used it against me. He had snipers focused on all three of you and if I didn’t jump, then all three of you would be dead.”

 

My throat burns with acidic guilt, but I reflect on the past year and easily swallow the bile. I stare at him, trying to discern if he is telling the truth, but he interrupts my analysis to continue.

 

“After my faked suicide, I had to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Completely. Thus, the reason for my two-year absence.”

 

There’s an unspoken lack of need for me in his admittance of the hunt he led, the lack of need for his “conductor of light”. I grimace, flinching as if I had been hit and put two more steps between us.

 

Sherlock, able to deduce my thoughts as always, attempts to rebuttal my beliefs. “John, no. Do not think for one second that I wouldn’t want you wi-”

 

“Sherlock, what the hell am I supposed to think?” My insecurities, specifically the one concerning my inability to ever maintain Sherlock’s attention, to ever be enough for him, fuels my fury. “You faked your suicide, - _right in front of me_ \- and then went off on this great chase to play a game you’ve been starving for since the moment we met - hell even before then. The whole time I sat here mourning you and berating myself for not doing enough to stop you, to save you, and the whole time, you were off gallivanting around Europe. Never needing me. Never wanting me.”

 

Sherlock looks the guiltiest I’ve seen him. His eyes bore into mine, pleading. “John, I always need you, always want you.”

 

I finally release the dam that has barricaded my love for him. I shake my head and close my eyes tight, bracing myself for the damage. The dam breaks, it’s overwhelming. I’m surging and flowing and swelling with love for a man that could never feel the same. “God, I'm such an idiot. I was so afraid - so afraid - that I hid beneath a façade of one-night-stands and indifferent dates. You know every time I wished it was you? You've had to have known. Of course you knew, and you let me - no, you don't deserve this. You don't deserve some grand proclamation of love from me. You deserve to see me walk out on you, but, that probably wouldn't faze you at all. Albeit my departure will be less dramatic than your disastrous plunge. By the way, kudos to you for such a splendid performance.”

 

I begin to turn and head for the door, not caring that I don't have a place to stay and that everything I own (and love) will be left here, but something in Sherlock’s eyes switches. The frighteningly painful guilt is replaced with something so raw and beautiful that when I open my eyes, I have to close them once more.

 

I feel him step toward me, hovering, flickering in front of me like the streetlights just beyond the windows.

 

My breath catches. “Please don’t let this be a dream. Please.”

 

I feel his response, murmured so softly that I, for a moment, believe I am dreaming. A pained yet relieved sob escapes my lips as they collide with his. The kiss is urgent and relentless and filled with a breath-taking ache that can only be sated by the nearness of our beating hearts. I thread my fingers into his unruly curls and pull him closer and closer, never satisfied with the distance between us. As he guides us to his bedroom, his whispered promise forms a litany that grounds me in this glorious present.

 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to a video of the performance of "Beneath a Moonless Sky":  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iimYZM8Z-0M


End file.
